


Tumbling fbawtft

by esama



Series: Tumbling Snippets [9]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Snippets, oneshots, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9104467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Various Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them snippets.





	1. Little shadow

**Author's Note:**

> unbetaed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt looks through the shadows

Newt roots around the grass, humming quietly to himself. Around him – or rather, behind him – Muggles pass him by, giving him strange looks before carefully routing around him, shaking their heads and muttering, "must've lost something there."

Newt doesn't even notice.

He'd been looking for better part of a hour now, but he isn't about to give up now. He turns pebbles and little rocks, pokes at a small pile of trash – old newspapers, paper wrappings of some questionable food, leaflets – and then moves onto to shifting through the tuffs of grass.

His fingers tingle – one of them stings a little, he might've cut it on a piece of glass couple streets back, but that's fine. It's here. He can feel it, can taste it in the slightest ting it copper in the air. It's _here_.

"Come now," he murmurs. "I know you there, there's no need to be frightened – I'm here to help. I only want to help, come now…"

It shifts, tingle fading, and Newt watches it go. There, into the alley, into the shadows – quick, he follows. He's crouched down and almost on all fours, dragging his suitcase as he goes and it must look thoroughly ludicrous, but he doesn't care because – there, behind a bin.

A tiny shred of darkness.

It curls there, in the shadow, almost invisible – like a snake, it coils into itself, making itself as small a target as possible, trying to hide. If a bit of darkness can shake, this one is definitely shaking.

"There you are – shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay, I'm not here to hurt you," Newt says, slowly inching his way closer. It's not trying to escape now, but it's coiling up tighter, barely a handful of shadow now. Terrified, the poor dear.

"It's okay, shh, it's okay… My name is Newt Scamader and I'm a wizard," he murmurs and scoots closer on all fours, inch by inch. "I was born in United Kingdom, and I went to a magic school there – Hogwarts. There's a school in United States too, Ilvermorny, but I really couldn't tell you much about it. I reckon they teach much the same things there. Charms, Transfiguration, Potions and History of Magic, astronomy too though I never was good at it myself. Herbology was one of my favourite subjects, study of magical plants and fungi…"

As he speaks he painstakingly gets closer, bit by bit. The shred of darkness quivers in the shadows, a terrified little speck of potential, but it's listening – it's not fleeing.

"My absolute favourite was Care of Magical Creatures," Newt continues and very, very carefully reaches out a hand. The bit of darkness recoils but stays, and very, very gently Newt cups his hand under it. It curls there indecisively. "To this day I have not stopped studying it. I'm a Magizoologist by trade now. I study and care for magical creatures. That's what I do…"

The shadow whips and curls little smoky tendrils this way and that, like unsure whether or not it should escape, and gently Newt cups his hands under it, sheltering it. It trembles in the embrace of his hands and then it's still, a ball of darkness resting in his hands. It feels like holding a dust storm and bit of lightning – it's cold and hot all at once. Magic, in a very raw, violent form.

Newt smiles. "Hello Credence," he murmurs. "Would you like to see my suitcase? I have about two hundred magical creatures in there – it's enlargened, much bigger than it looks. I would very much like to introduce them all to you."

The little shadow turns, agitated, but eventually stills, resting in his palms, a weightless pressure of a incorporeal entity. Newt smiles wider.

"Okay," he whispers. "Good."


	2. make your heart proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a war on, and for a while Newt did his part.

"… _lost in the field_ ," the captain's words echo in Newt's head as he strokes his hand, trembling terribly, over the Hippogriff's feathers. They're rumbled and soot stained and lot of them are burned and broken, and his fingers brush over jagged edges. She used to be beautiful, this hippogriff, with a feather coat of golden browns – but now she's just grey with dirt and burn marks.

She'd be able to fly again, sure, but she's terribly spooked and he hates to make her do it again, and he would have to.

And the words still echo, grim and terrible, in the back of his head.

Eight hippogriffs lost in the field. Just like that, nothing else but that, spoken quickly and without inflection. Another casualty and not even that – rather, it's a loss of resources. Eight Hippogriffs lost in the field, and that was probably all Newt would know, because all they would be now was a number on a file somewhere.

Newt takes a breath and shushes the nervous creature with a soft noise – not quite sure if the creature in question is the hippogriff or his rapidly beating heart. "There, there, shh, it's alright," he murmurs, though it's not, it's really not okay at all, "there there, shh…"

She settles with anxious little flap of her burn marked wings and he runs his hand up her neck, and then over her peak – broken near the front, she must've tried to bite something metallic. Newt fingers the dent in the bone and makes a face. He hadn't even noticed it before.

"There there," he whispers. "Come now, we need to saddle you up."

She follows him when he leads her back to the _not_ stables – because he refuses to call them anything of the sort. There, other hippogriffs are prepared for saddle, and they're just as spooked as his bird is if not more so. Some of them are already in saddle, flapping their wings anxiously and trying to get the weigh settle. Hippogriffs didn't much like saddle.

They liked reigns even less.

Not meeting anyone's eyes, Newt led his bird to her place and to the saddle waiting her. She flaps her wings and takes few anxious steps back but she stays still and lets him saddle her. He does it methodically but with care, checking every strap and every belt, making sure it was tight but comfortable, making sure she had full range of movement.

"We'll be heading out soon," he murmurs, stroking her side, carding his fingers through ruffled feathers to try and preen them neat. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to eat something, please? It might be a long flight."

 She makes an anxious snapping noise at him and settles her wings over the saddle straps. Newt how it looks – there is no way for her to comfortably tuck her wings in, with the saddle straps in the way.

"Company prepare!" the captain shouts somewhere. "We'll be moving out in ten minutes!"

Newt bows his head. He's not even sure who they're fighting anymore, he isn't sure why they're fighting – all he knows is that the battle here has already lost them eight Hippogriffs. It would probably lose them more.

And the war's only begun.

* * *

 

_Hairdressing free of charge for the enlisted!_

That was how it started, with a Muggle hair salon and a sign advertising free haircuts for soldiers. Though really it started before that – with Hogwarts, with Mother, with Muggles declaring war on each other, with Wizards getting drawn in, really, Newt isn't quite sure. But it's the hair salon that somehow is the final nail on the coffin.

"D'ya reckon they take the ministry enlisted?" Theseus asks with something like mirth and Newt makes a face. His brother has been standing tall and proud and overbearingly _patriotic_ ever since he signed up to – to whatever he'd signed up.

"You're not enlisted – wizards don't have armies," Newt mutters.

"So says you," Theseus says and wraps an arm around his shoulder – it's more of a rough shake than any sort of hug, though. "You don't really know a thing, Newwie. The things they're saying at the recruitment offices. There's going to be war, you know, a proper, _magical_ _war_ , the sort no one's ever seen before. Of course there's going to be armies too."

Newt look is down, biting his lip. Thing is, he has heard – everyone's talking about it. About the _experimental_ magical combat forms and how duelling was being brought forth to a new era – about how many magical nations were already tangled with the muggles' war.

They'd taken the Hippogriffs, too. Ministry forfeiture, according to the Ministry Official who'd came into hand over the paper work. They were seized for the Greater Good of the British Wizarding Community – and everyone with half a brain knew why.

Cavalry needed mounts, after all.

"We're all going to be heroes," Theseus says and grips him by the back of his neck, going for compassionate and ending up more restrictive. " _War_ heroes, Newwie. Wouldn't that be something – to have your big brother be a war hero?"

Newt doesn't say anything to that and with another brotherly shake, Theseus releases him and heads towards the Muggle hair salon. He'd probably be presenting some charmed bit of paper, made to look like what the muggles were expecting to see – if he even bothers with that. Theseus could flash a smile and spin a tale, and he'd get his way. That was Theseus.

Newt is left staring after him, hands squeezed into fists. Back in the far, mother is still disconsolate about the loss of the Hippogriffs – they'd taken even the babies, leaving behind only Old Croaky, too old to fly anymore, and the eggs – and those were pre-emptively marked as Ministry Property. No doubt the moment they'd know if the birds would be viable, they'd be seized too for training.

Instead of becoming beloved pets for the wealthy, they'd become mounts for the war.

Newt bites his lip, watching through the window as Theseus charms himself into the barber's chair, by magic or by charisma. There's a lady there, a short haired muggle woman who smiles almost mischievously as she lifts the scissors to cut Newt's brother's hair short.

Newt can still hear it, Mother crying after her birds – how they'd be hurt, and killed, and how no one would look after them right. She'd all but thrown Theseus out of the house when he'd came home with the ministry leaflet in hand. It had ended up crumbled in the fireplace.

No one knew Newt had picked it up afterwards.

Newt tucks a lock of curly hair from his eyes, and then takes a breath.

The jingle of the bell above the barbershop door sounds very final when he steps inside.

* * *

 

Sleep doesn't come easy, in the front. You can put up as many heating charms and silence charms as you like, but the chill still creeps in somehow, and the noise echoes. Muggle guns… make a lot of noise.

Newt uses most of the time he should be trying to get sleep writing and sketching. He doesn't even write anything sensible or important –things he'd seen mostly, like the little Bowtruckle he'd saved from the fire the muggles had started in the forest by the river, where they'd watered the Hippogriffs. It's a scared, shaky little thing and spends most of the time hiding in his pocket – but it has a charm to it.

Newt sketches it in loving detail trying to capture every little wrinkle of it's – his – green bark-skin, the veins of the leafs of his head. "What do you think?" Newt asks quietly, as the Bowtruckle peeks out shakily. He peers at the sketch on Newt's water stained notebook and then he hides in the pocket again. "I guess my sketching does need work.

"Scamander are you _still_ awake?" a female voice grumbles from the bunk below. "Get some sleep man, for Merlin's sake – we got almost fifty miles to fly tomorrow."

"Yes, yes," Newt answers and quickly douses his wand light. "I'm lying down now."

"Tch," the witch mutters and there is a creak of wood as she turns over in her bunk. "If you fall off saddle I am not catching you…"

Newt swallows, waiting until the breathing below becomes steady and the other wizard falls asleep, then he peers down at his pocket and miles at the nervous looking bowtruckle. "It's okay, nothing to fear," he murmurs and takes out a small phial he keeps for the bowtruckle, with whatever bugs he manages to catch in it. The bowtruckle accepts the moth he offers it with a grimace, pocking at it with dismay.

"Don't pick at your food," Newt murmurs and then grins when the little thing sticks out it's tongue at him. "I think I'll call you Pickett."

"Scamander, I swear to Merlin if you don't shut up and sleep," his bunkmate grumbles sleepily.

"Sorry, sorry," Newt whispers and quickly lays his head down. "Shutting up now."

He keeps staring at newly named Pickett for a long time, and sleep doesn't come easily.

* * *

 

Desolation. That's what it looks like in those places muggles call warfronts – they're desolate, burned out places, carved out and void of life. From high enough they look like something a disease might make, or worm – like ant carving it's way through tree bark. Either that or they're rain washed, muddy wastelands, and that's even worse.

Newt is glad they very rarely have any cause to get anywhere near the muggle warfronts.

* * *

 

Frost is clinging to her feathers when Newt finally gives up on his hippogriff. He hadn't dared to name her, knowing she'd once belonged to someone, been someone's beloved pet and friend, and now he mourns the lack of a name when she breathes out her last and lays down her head and then… then she's gone.

She caught a spell full on her chest – one of the new ones, modelled after the muggle bombs. Bombarda, or something like that it was called. Her chest and head taken most of the impact and Newt had barely been burned at all, but the concussive force had been too much – her carina had all but shattered. She'd barely been able to land afterwards.

"Pity," the captain says later, not quite heartless but not quite sympathetic either. "You're a good rider, Scamander, and we haven't another bird for you."

Newt still has her blood in under his nails and he's clutching onto a feather – her wing feather, a proper flight feather, one of the few one she had head left that hadn't been broken or burned. He can't quite manage an answer.

"You got options though," the captain says. "There's the Apparition Corps."

"Haven't got my apparition licence," Newt mumbled. He'd been expelled from Hogwarts before the paperwork had came through – and though he'd been allowed to have his wand back… apparition licences weren't that important for the cavalry."

"Do you think anyone gives a damn about licences here?" the captain asks grimly. "Can you Apparate blind?"

Newt shakes his head. He hasn't ever tried, really. "I can do line of sight, though," he murmurs.

"Hm, not much use of that," the captain answers and takes a few thoughtful steps. Then he pauses. "You're good with beasts – any experience with Dragons?"

Newt swallows. "I – little?" he offers, by which he means that he once visited the reserve in Wales and had gotten close enough to pet one of the Welsh Greens – before he'd been chased out. He'd been ten at the time and Mother had screamed like a banshee at him.

"I hear they're doing some experimental stuff with Dragons in the Eastern Front," the captain says. "You might have a use for someone like you there."

* * *

 

Pumpkin pie doesn't taste quite the same after four months under preservation charms – and even with treats from home you really you can't have much of a Christmas in a war camp. Really, the best thing about the meagre festivities they have is the fact that they've dared to allow mail through just for the occasion, and most everyone gets letters.

Newt gets three. One from Father, full of awkward approval and grim assurances of victory and great future and eventual end of the war – in Victory of course. Newt can't stomach to really read it through that closely. Another letter is from Theseus from the Western Front – they've given him another medal for being brave – or stupid – enough to rush a castle or something equally ridiculous. It couldn't be anymore Gryffindor even if Theseus had used red and gold ink to write it.

The last letter is from his mother – Old Croaky had died.

It's really not much of a Christmas.

* * *

 

The Researchers are what Newt likes most about his new station in the Eastern Front. They're more like him than any of his fellow soldiers – even if they have barely couple words between them, they _understand_ each other differently. They share a common interest and with it a common language. _Dragons_ , they agree, are _fascinating_.

What isn't so fascinating is what they're actually trying to do with them. It's one of those ridiculous political decisions that look oh so nice on paper – Father had probably signed on something similar at some point in his career – but which don't really make any sense in actual execution.

Newt can almost imagine it being written. Due to the Success of our Brave Hippogriff and Thestral Cavalries, a new Experimental form of Mounted Warfare will be Tested and Researched Extensively in our Forward Camp in the Eastern Front… Somewhere, some politician was probably very chuffed about coming up with the idea of putting riders on dragons.

That same politician had probably never actually seen a live dragon.

"Non," says one of the researches when Newt asks – pantomimes mostly with expressions – whether he thinks it will actually work. They share a look of understanding and then eye the dragon they've been tasked with _training_ , a juvenile Ukrainian Ironbelly, a splendid specimen for training in paper… except for the fact that it's a _dragon_.

If wizards had ever been capable of training dragons, they'd all be dragon riders by now.

Newt sighs and then catches a glimpse of something glittering, and then vanishing – a shadow sneaking about in the dragon dens. He jostles the dragon tamer with his elbow and points.

"Niffler," the researcher answers with an amused roll of his eyes and Newt's interest is piqued.

* * *

 

Solitude is not really issue in the war – not until it is. Newt, as a former member of the cavalry, has experienced his fair share of it – though they did fly in formation on occasion, travelling was safest alone and scattered, making as sparse a target as possible. One got used to it after a while, even to the occasional necessiti of making camp alone, far from your fellows.

He hadn't really expected to run into it in the Eastern Front however. His new posting was at a training camp, a fairly well secured base, kept safe from the risk of being taken by the fact that it was _full of dragons_. And yet, here he is.

Alone and quite far from his fellows.

"Shh, shh," he whispers to the young Ironbelly who'd just spend better part of the day carrying him off to the mountains. The dragon snarls at him furiously as it claws at the mountain side, partially trying to get through his shield and at him, partially to get high enough to attempt another bout of flight. The dragon is exhausted though – too young to be flying this far, certainly. He hadn't even had his breakfast yet, the poor thing.

"It's okay, it's alright," Newt says, creeping closer. Over the last weeks he's learned the body language of the Ironbelly breed and they're not known for their bellies for nothing – imitating the weirdly threatening belly crawl isn't easy, when you're a human and quite bit smaller than a dragon, but he thinks he does well enough.

The dragon hisses at him, the metallic scales of his belly scraping against the ground and for a moment it blusters at him, threatening.

"It's okay, it's okay," Newt murmurs, creeping until he can get at the stone wall beside it – then he uses it to climb up, just feet or two higher. There he spreads out his arms, taking full advantage of his long coat and it's tails to make himself as big as possible – then, going more by his gut than any actual knowledge he's learned, he roars at the dragon.

The dragon roars back, but confusedly – and newt's next roar is better, more draconic, a recognisable adult Ironbelly roar. The juvenile male tries to roar back again but Newt quickly jumps at it and then grabs a hold of his horns and roars again, as loud as he can.

The dragon whines, confused and tired and no doubt starving after all the energy it's been burning – and then rolls over.

"There you go, just stay down, there you go." Newt murmurs even as he forces the dragons horns down and against the ground. It shifts, trying to lift it's head but Newt presses up, like a dragon would when establishing wing dominancy. "See, I have power over you, you're young and you're confused and I'm in charge, so just stay down, there you go…"

The dragon struggles and really if it was _really_ trying it could probably throw him off – but the confusion wins the day for Newt. The dragon whimpers and falls down lax, dominance established.

"How in Merlin's name," one of the researchers mutters at him in stumbling English when he lands, on dragon back, back at the camp.

"All the food is here," Newt answers with a shrug.

He's seen what happened to the Hippogriffs and Thestrals once people figured out how to get them to fly straight into spell fire – he's not about to let Dragons be included into the _lost resources_ listings.

* * *

 

"Librarian, probably," one of the soldiers says with a sort of amused scoff when Newt asks him what he'd be, if it wasn't for the war. "Me dad died last year, dragon pox – left behind lot of books and things. Meant to put them together in one place, make a proper library you know – never got the chance. I reckon I'd do it for him. Maybe even put up that publishing house he was always muttering about."

The soldier looks at him curiously. "What about you?"

Newt has no idea. He hadn't been doing much before the war, mostly trying to figure out what to do without his, well, _NEWTs_ – which regardless of what Theseus thought wasn't really that funny. He'd figured that eventually he would've had to find a job, move out of the farm – get out of Mother's and Father's hair.

He'd joined the war instead – and though he hated most of it, almost all of it really… there were times when it wasn't terribly bad. Like when he'd found Pickett, and the on going efforts to catch the damn Niffler that kept suicidal sneaking into dragon dens – the dragons too. The travelling and seeing distant lands bit wasn’t that bad either.

"I guess I'd like to study magical creatures," Newt muses. It's something he likes and something he's fairly good at. "It's not much of a job though, is it…"

"Well, can't say I rightly know," Augustus murmurs, considering him. "Can't recall any books on the subject, anyway."

"Hm," Newt agrees and gives him a wry smile. "I guess it would be the Ministry for me, then," he says. His father worked in the Ministry. Theseus would go to the Ministry the moment the war would let up. Newt would probably end up there too, by default.

He couldn't think of anything grislier than that.

"Well, if I ever get around setting up a publishing house – and you ever get around to studying magical creatures, send me a letter," Augustus says. "Maybe we can make a book about it."

"That would be the day, wouldn't it," Newt sighs wistfully.


	3. appropriate application of obliviation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt by missmorange: Who should have noticed that Graves wasn't acting right? And what happened to the people who did?

"You can't demote me!" Tina says, the sheer well of disbelief rising her voice high and sharp. "That boy's a Squib, at least, if not a weak Wizard – he's not a Nomaj, and we can't just stand by and do nothing while his mother – "

"Ms. Goldstein," her boss snaps at her and then, softer, " _Tina_. You attacked his Mother in front of a gathering of Nomajes. It hardly matters what the boy is now when you go throwing spells – "

"I didn't throw any spells though," Tina says, frowning at him. Mr. Graves gives her a look and it's… a little strange.

"…true, I suppose," the man says, his eyebrows twitching like he wants to frown. "You caused a scene never the less, in front of bunch of worst Nomajes there are!" he says and for a split of a second he looks almost amused. "Tina, you know that sort of thing can't just be allowed."

"Sir?" Tina frowns.

"You're lucky you didn't lose your permit," Mr. Graves says and turns away. "Please hand in your notes on the New Salem investigation and clear out your desk – "

"Sir," Tina says again, pitching her voice low. The man is acting… strange. "Sir, are you alright?"

There's a sigh and Mr. Graves hangs his head just a little for a moment. Then he turns, and flash of bright red light is last thing Tina sees.

When she wakes up later, having fainted out of sheer stress and exhaustion, her stuff has been removed from the Auror Offices and she has the vague impression she might have gone hysteric in front of Mr. Graves. How utterly humiliating.

* * *

 

Queenie tilts her head curiously. "Percy, you've been practicing," she comments with an amused smile.

"Hm?" the man asks distractedly, frowning as he looks up from the folder he's been leading through.

"I get nothing from you," Queenie says and smiles a little wider. "Even Tina doesn't have shields that good and she's been building hers for years – did you take lessons?"

Percy frowns at her just for a moment – then his expression smoothes into a amiable smile that sits even worse with Queenie than the confusing. "I found a good teacher," he says, and glances around. "Ms. Goldstein," he then says, belated.

_Ms. Goldstein?_

Something in Queenie's face must give it away because split of a moment later he's holding a wand and the words of alarm still on Queenie's tongue before she can voice them at all.

"Shh," the man says softly and steps to her side, winding his arm gently around hers. The tip of his wand presses against her ribs and he smiles. "Let's go have a talk, Ms. Goldstein," he says, with underlying rumble in his voice, and turns her to his office.

Later, Queenie feels the most bizarre sense of loss – like something had left her and she couldn't for the life of her think what. She passes the Chief of the Magical Security on her way to her desk and barely thinks to bid Mr. Graves good afternoon, so scatterbrained she is.

* * *

 

Sam takes in the scene, scratching at the back of his head. Another building destroyed in yet another Nomaj neighbourhood and they got there too late to fix it without Nomajes noticing it. "Well, the best we can do right now is make liars out of the witnesses," he says thoughtfully. "And muddle up with their testimony. This will still be on papers tomorrow."

"Hmm, quite," Mr. Graves agrees, he too taking in the destruction. "It must be one marvellous creature to do this so fast and leave with no trace."

"Marvellous, sir?" Sam asks uncertainly.

"And terrible," Mr. Graves adds, almost like an after thought and shakes his head. "Go take care of the witnesses. I'll have another look."

"Sure, sir," Sam says, blinking with surprise and shakes his head. "Do you want me to take down their testimonies first."

"Do as you see fit," the man says and takes few steps closer to the destruction, leaving Sam staring after him in astonishment.

"As I see fit?" Sam murmurs under his breath. What the hell?

Mr. Graves pauses at the edge of the rubble and glances behind his shoulder. "Actually, come here – take a look at this. I want to hear what you make of it."

Shaking his head, Sam steps forward, wondering if the stress of the investigation was maybe getting to Mr. Graves. Then, the man actually _touches_ him – puts his hand on his shoulder. "Now, take a look of that there," the man says, and something pokes into Sam's side.

He can't quite remember the scene or the interviews with the witnesses – though he has it all written down so it must've happened. Mr. Graves is no where to be seen, of course, busy as always. Sam shakes his head and starts compiling a folder, wondering if the stress is getting to him.

* * *

 

"Another headache?" Percival asks as he steps into Seraphina's office, where she's currently rubbing her fingers over her aching forehead. "Weren't you supposed to have those looked up?"

"Haven't had the time," Seraphina sighs and looks up. "What do you have for me?"

"It's the same thing," he answers and hands over the folder. Seraphina opens it and sighs faintly at the images – almost identical to the previous incidents. "Black smoke appears, wrecks havoc, and vanishes and no one knows where it came from, where it went, or how it did what it did."

"So, nothing new," Seraphina says, shuffling the papers around and glancing over the testimonies. She frowns a little at Percival's perfunctory report – they're gotten even more succinct since he started using self writing quills. Not a bad quality in an Auror, to be precise, but she rather misses the hint of dark humour, as inappropriate as it was.

Sighing, she closes the folder. "Please tell me you have some _thoughts_ at least?" she asks without much hope.

He presses his lips together and sighs, hands a in his pocket. "It's like nothing I've never seen. It's not spell work, there's no usual marks or after effects, and it happens too fast for it to be a device… and it moves. It has to be a creature, something with a will."

"Yes, but what sort of creature?" Seraphina asks impatiently and stands up. "This can't go on for much longer. The Nomajes are starting to put together a cohesive picture of the events and it's only matter of time before we can't cover this up with explanations of gas explosions. The story is hardly holding water as it is and they're starting to _investigate_ , Percival."

"We could arrange an actual gas explosion, make it more believable?" he offers.

Seraphina turns to him. "That's not funny, Mr. Graves," she says sharply.

"My apologies, Madam President," he says, bowing his head a little. "But what else can we do? We don't know where these attacks originate from. Do we?"

"The map is still incomplete," Seraphina says, shaking her head. "It has to be somewhere in the south end of Manhattan, however."

"How so?" Percival asks.

"According to Delacour, that's where it always heads afterwards," Seraphina says and looks at him. "It might not be a bad idea to investigate. If the creature is there, it must have a left signs."

"Hm… yes, it must have," Percival murmurs and narrows his eyes. "That's where the Second Salem Church is, isn't it…"

"Excuse me?" Seraphina asks with a mild frown.

"The New Salem Philanthropic Society that Ms. Goldstein got so tangled with," the man says and hums. "That… would make sense wouldn't it…"

"What _are_ you talking about?"

Percival shakes his head and smiles. "Just thinking out loud," he says and then gives her a worried look. "You look tired, Seraphina. Are you sure you shouldn't go see a healer?"

"I'm perfectly fine," Seraphina growls, turning away. "And I cannot afford to show weakness in time like this, you know that."

"Yes," he says, stepping closer. "I do."

Her headache only gets worse after that, pounding at her temples. She thinks she might've seen Percival at some point – no doubt he only had bad news for her.


	4. bonds that grow, that bind, that strangle you alive

He met her on his death bed. Well, it wasn't really a bed – it was more a blanket in the garden, where he'd settled among the coppiced trees, just to rest in their shade after hard day of working outside. It was a nice day but he was tired, he'd just wanted to rest a little, listen to the birds and the winds and just close his eyes for a moment.

Then she was there, sitting beside him, with her hair so long it pooled at her waist, her robes glowing golden in the sunlight. Her beauty then was almost ethereal.

"I considered letting you die," is the first thing she ever said to him, not looking at him, smiling at his garden. "You're so happy here, so happy living your little life. Any time I could've reached out and plucked you right up, my beautiful ripe plum, but every time I hesitated. You smile, in way my children do not anymore. It reaches your eyes."

He thought it was a dream then – still to this day he sometimes thinks it's a dream. She looked truly unreal, in his overgrown little garden that he hadn't quite been able to keep track of in his older years. He'd possibly been star struck by her, because he doesn't remember saying anything. Maybe he couldn't.

And she smiled and it didn't reach her eyes. "I thought it would be a mercy, to let you live your short life to the fullest of human lifespan and let you fade away," she admits, turning to him. "And die, innocent and oblivious. And then I would hold the memory of you with me, as you were, untainted… forever."

She sighed and then reached out, to lay her soft, soft hand on his wizened cheek, running her thumb over the thin skin under his eye. "Breath of fresh air only remains fresh when you let it pass – capture it, and it grows so stale, so quickly," she whispered. "But you are dear to me now – for your short life, you and your little adventures have been my _sun_. And I don't think I can let you go."

She reached down and kissed his forehead, her lips soft and warm on the parched skin. "Forgive me."

The next morning he woke up under the coppiced trees. He breathed in and his ribs didn't crack, he stood and his knees didn't buckle. His hands were firm once more, his skin smooth and fresh and when he looked at his reflection on a bucket, it was new, young, _impossible_.

It was nearly a fifteen hundred years ago.

* * *

 

Gnarlak looks at Newt closely, eyes narrowed. "Don't I know you," he says and points a finger. "Aren't you the guy with a case full of monsters?"

Newt's heart skips a beat, it always does, and he almost jumps up and just leaves. He doesn't, staying still instead and not meeting the goblin's eye. "You're well informed, Mr. Gnarlak," he says, swallowing, and doesn't meet Tina's worried look.

"You are, you really are," Gnarlak says, lowering his hand and peering at him with great interest. "Huh," he says. "You're younger than I thought."

Newt smiles, and it doesn't reach his eyes.

* * *

 

Fifteen hundred years before, Newt wasn't anybody, not really. He wasn't even a wizard. It was the time before magic schools, Hogwarts wouldn't even be thought up for another five hundred years and most wizards learned from their families and relatives – and muggleborns like him, if they ever found out they were wizards at all, might be lucky enough to find an apprenticeship. Newt didn't, in what he considers his first life, his original life. He didn't learn at all.

But he knew, then, that sometimes he could hold out a hand and the berry bushes would pluck themselves, the buckets filling with fruit floating right to them. He knew that sometimes, when it got too dark, he could hold out a hand and light would bloom inside his clenched fist. He knew that sometimes, things happened just because he wanted them to.

He knew better than to let it happen too often, though. The times were different back then. And he never did get training, that first life. His parents, his family, were all muggle – he didn't even meet a wizard until too late in his life to do much about it, a passing familiarity that left no true lasting marks on him.

So, he'd lived as muggle, a muggle peasant with small muggle village, owner of a small plot of land, selling wood for his village. That, and the occasional venture into animal husbandry, into keeping all too many cats and even more dogs and one time a truly foulmouthed ermine, was more or less how he spend his life.

Or he did, anyway, until he woke up sixty years younger, and couldn't anymore.

His village was quiet and nothing happened but they had a chapel and priest who was severe about the evils of witchcraft and demons and though even then Newt didn't put much stock to it, he knew his fellow townsfolk better than to stay. As it was… his joints no longer ached, his breathing didn't stutter and he was strong, again. He could move and run and jump in ways he hadn't in decades.

The adventure of suddenly having his youth back was all too alluring. That was when he started travelling, leaving that village he's not forgotten the name off behind – and he hasn't really stopped since.

* * *

 

Newt follows Gnarlak out of the main bar area, ducking his head against the wide eyed look Tina sends after him. There is a private room in the back, with a billiards table, smaller version of the bar in the main area, and what looks like a poker table.

"Never did think I'd see the day," Gnarlak says as he reaches over to take a bottle haphazardly from the bar. "Of someone like you walking to my place. You do me honour, Mr… Scamander, I think it's these days?"

"Yes, that's… that's what I go by, now," Newt says uneasily as he sits down by the poker table, looking uneasily at the stack of cards sitting there. "I really don't need any sort of special service."

"Oh, please, indulge me. It's not every day a I get the chance to serve a veritable _legend_ ,"  Gnarlak says with a sharp toothed grin and pours him what looks like whiskey. "There's a saying about you, among goblin kind, you know. Serve, for not serving will not serve you well. We all remember what happened to the Rutrock Clan. Here you go."

Newt presses his lips together and accepts the glass. "Thank you," he says and doesn't meet the goblin's eyes

"For your health," Gnarlak says, grinning wider as he lifts his own glass and throws it back in a single gulp. "Well then, what can I do for you, Mr. _Scamander_?"

"…I'm looking for a demiguise," Newt says after a moment. "He escaped my case. You apparently know a lot about the going on's in the city, so…"

"A demiguise," the goblin says, arching his eyebrows. "Is that all?" he sounds almost disappointed.

Newt presses his lips together, looking down at his hands. He can still feel the magically restraining shackles around his wrists. "And I was wondering if you knew about one Mr. Graves of MACUSA's magical security department," he says and glances at the goblin.

Gnarlak leans back, staring at him. "That's more like it," he says grimly.

* * *

 

In his second life, one of the few supposed _lives_  he bothers to give a number to, Newt got to know magic. It was something he always regretted, as he'd grown old, as his limbs had grown stiff – that he never got the chance to know more. There was a whole world out there and he'd only ever glimpsed at it through clenched fingers, and he'd regretted it often, in his later years.

But when he's young again, the world is suddenly open and wide and _exciting_  and he could go out and learn. And while it took him years just to find a cohesive community of wizards willingly teach a borderline vagabond, he did eventually learn.

Back then, spells were different – longer, clumsier, guttural and often they did not work for you at all no matter how well someone else might use them. It was before the true _practice_  of magic, before cohesion, before faint hope and faith was consolidated into a _system_  that eventually became self fulfilling prophesy. Newt later wrote papers about it, about how the systematic tutelage of magic eventually _made_  modern magic possible, but this was long, long before that.

The first _spell_  he ever learned was one to boil water. He still sometimes uses the old Anglo-Saxon version of it, even though the modern spell is short and sweet and works every time.

He did not become any sort of incredible wizard, he did not become powerful or famous or really even well liked. He was too excited about his life, his youth, and all the possibilities ahead of him. Too excited. People found him annoying, really. Sometimes he wondered if the miracle that had given him back his youth had changed him somewhat, or maybe it was just his age. He was too old, inside, to care about the concerns that worried younger people.

He didn't dress right, preferring muggle clothes to wizard robes, he did not wear his hair right, preferring to shear it short rather than wear it long. He didn't move or speak or act right, always a little odd – always a little hunched, something he didn't manage to shake even though his back was perfectly fine now. He was more interested in magical plants than magical people and people _his_  age did not particularly care for him when he was young, and he remained too old for them even as they all aged.

And the fact that he aged with them did not change things much.

Yet he did marry again, eventually - marrying one of his teachers, a woman who thought she was ten years older than him. Newt doesn't remember much of her beyond that, just that she knew him well and he even told her the truth eventually, but very little else. Not her name – or his own from the time for that matter. They had no children, she had very few relatives, and their life together was quiet, if spotted with experiments in magic and wonder.

He thinks she was the one who taught him first about what one day would become the art of potions.

But for all that he settled, he didn't. There was just too much to do and see and learn and explore. World was still wide open in front of him, full of magic and adventure and so much of it was so unknown, completely undiscovered. He never could settle, after once having grown old and weak and incapable of doing anything but settling for what was there, as opposed to all that could be.

Only he grew old again so fast, too excited over all the wonder of magic to ever stop.

And then there  _she_  was again on his death bed, still young and beautiful, still smiling in way that never reached her eyes.

* * *

 

Gnarlak pours another drink for himself, drains it, and pours again. "I can't tell you," he eventually says. "If you were someone else I'd say asking would get you killed but history is on your side there. Answering will get _me_  killed though. So I can't tell you."

Newt nods, glancing at him. "Nothing good to know there, then," he presumes.

Gnarlak hums, turning the glass between two fingers. It scrapes against the table. "You can assume things," he then offers. "About recent goings on, if you're even concerned with that sort of thing. Does someone like you even read news papers, keep up with events?"

"I do," Newt admits. "Can't speak for anyone else."

"Hah, so it's true – it's just you, huh?" Gnarlak says sharply.

"There's the Flamels, but…" Newt shrugs his shoulders. He's never gotten the truth out of them about how their supposed Philosopher's Stone and the elixir of life works and he suspects it's not much like how his… situation functions.

Gnarlak grimaces. "Well, in any case – newspaper headlines, rumours, suspicions, and whatnot. All very relevant to this case. I'm sure you can draw some conclusions about Director Graves from those."

Newt nods slowly, thinking. Grindelwald. "Is there a chance that…" he trails off frowning. If Gnarlak can't answer, he wouldn't be able to answer that either, would he? "Is there anything you can give me on him?" he asks. "I can pay you well."

"Depends on what," Gnarlak says, staring at him. "I can't give you no proof, nothing really _usable_."

"A hint, then," Newt says.

"Even that's going to cost you."

"How much?"

Gnarlak smiles. "I think you of all people can do better than money."

Newt sighs and considers what he could pay with. He's thrown a lot of useless tat out recently, but he should still have some old curiosities hanging about. "I have frozen ashwinder eggs," he offers, rummaging through his pockets. "I think I might even have one on me…"

"Not bad," Gnarlak says slowly, eying him consideringly. "But judging by what I've heard about you… Ashwinder eggs aren't much anything for you, are they?"

Newt presses his lips together for a moment. Damn his reputation. What else did he have? Lot of demiguise hair balls hanging around, but those were only worth it for actual craftsmen. He could raid the niffler's hoard, but that's just mostly gold. Nundu's nail clippings he knows are worth a fortune but no way would he give them to a gangster…

"I… might have phoenix egg shells," he then says thoughtfully. Had he kept those? It had been better part of two hundred years, he hadn't had this particular suitcase then, but… he wouldn't have thrown them out, would he?

Gnarlak stares at him. "Phoenixes don't make eggs," he says suspiciously.

"They do, when they have young," Newt says with a shrug. "I rescued a phoenix once – she ended up having a clutch of eggs in my trunk. It was really quite fascinating." It had been too. And it had almost set the whole trunk on fire, which had been… interesting to say at least.

Gnarlak narrows his eyes. "I think I'd like to see a phoenix's egg shells," he then says slowly.

So, Newt lifts his suitcase to the poker table between them and opens it under the goblin's curious eyes. Keeping the suitcase lid between the gangster and the case, Newt sticks his wand in and casts a wordless spell, hoping against hope that he hadn't thrown the shells out after all.

It takes a while, but eventually something jumps out of the suitcase, small fractures of deep red gold which Newt quickly catches from air. Even after all this time and probably losing them under heaps of other things, the eggshells feel smooth and warm in his hand before he sets them down.

Gnarlak eyes them with interest and then picks up one small shard of shell. His eyes widen at the feel of it and quickly he takes a jeweller's loupe out from his chest pocket, peering at the shell intently.

"Enough for a hint, and any word on my demiguise?" Newt asks, pushing rest of the eggshell over.

"Yes, I'd say it is," Gnarlak say, marvelling the little shard of shell. "Alright, Mr. Scamander, you have yourself a deal."

"Then…?" Newt closes his suitcase and glances at him expectantly.

Gnarlak bares his teeth at him. "You might find _a_  Graves in his apartment," he says after a moment. "And your Demiguise is probably somewhere along the Fifth Avenue – you might want to check out Macy's department store. I hear it's been getting trashed by something… unseen."

Newt frowns a little. What on earth is that supposed to mean? He might find Graves in his apartment – well obviously you might find someone where they _live_. "I might find…" he starts and then stops. _A_  Graves. "I see," Newt says and stands up. "Thank you. Mr. Gnarlak."

"Because of who you are, I'll hold of on calling the MACUSA until _after_  you leave," the goblin says, turning to the eggshells. "But I don't recommend lingering."

"Will you tell them about…" Newt trails off meaningfully.

Gnarlak glances at him and grimaces at him. "Do I look like an idiot to you, Mr. Scamander?" he asks.

Newt nods in gratitude and heads out.

* * *

 

"I could let you die now," she said to him, at the end of his second life. "I've had double the time now, and I've recorded every bit of it. It will keep me going for eons, I expect. Your smile, your love of life, of your… magic. It has and will give me much joy. And I think I could let you go, now."

She was just as he remembered – only he hadn't remembered much. On his more fanciful moments he'd imagined her as angel, or a goddess, or anything between that and a devil, but he'd never really found an explanation neither for her, or his returned youth.

She was even younger than the last time he saw her, he thought then, what few wrinkles she had gone, smoothed away to make her look almost too young to be called a woman at all. Her hair was still long, her skin luminous, her robes golden and glimmering with jewels. She looked like richness given physical form.

"But maybe I can't," she said. "My children grow crooked and vile, their… vices twisting them into forms I can't understand. Age wears on all of us, age and time and the ever endless toil of dragging our years with us. We love our lives and we hate living them, the way time wears on us, stretches us out, closes us in."

She smiled, and it looks hollow and awful on her beautiful face. "You love life and you love living it and I love you for it. How could I possibly let you go, when you are so full of honest light? When you smile, and make the world around you brighter?"

Next morning he woke up young again.

 


	5. It all makes (non)sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director Graves applies logic to Newt Scamander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted from phone sorry about typos etc etc

"Auror Goldstein, let me see if I got this straight," Mr. Graves grinds out through clenched teeth, rubbing at his forehead with the knuckles of his left hand. "Shortly after an incident with a anti-magic nomaj society which ended up involving obliviations, an obscurus – potentially the most powerful obscurus ever recorded – started tearing the city apart."

"That's right, sir," Tina says, trying not to fiddle with her hands nervously. "Newt – Mr. Scamander theorised it was the obliviation that set the obscurus off."

"Right. And the obscurus caught the interest of Grindelwald, then masquerading as myself – though at the time he didn't know it was this Credence Barebone person."

Tina nods. "If he had known it was Credence, he probably would've snatched him up right away, sir – so no, he probably didn't know it was Credence specifically, just someone near him."

"Right," Graves says and looks at her. "And while he was trying to figure it out, you ran into Mr. Scamander in what according to your report was a meeting of the self same anti-magic nomaj society – one of their rallies."

"He was just passing through, sir," Tina say.

"And passing through he caused an incident that, it so happens, completely distracted you from your self imposed task of observing the gathering," Graves says, his eyes narrowing. "As well as losing his magically expanded suitcase, which you've reported houses numerous magical creatures, including a thunderbird, numerous size changing serpents, diriclaws – and... a nundu. Among many others."

"It was really just a mistake sir – there was this nomaj, their suitcases looked outwardly exactly alike," Tina explains quickly.

"How terribly inconvenient," Graves says flatly, "how it caused such an incident. Escaped murtlap, an erumpent, numerous billywigs from what I hear, one of those size changing serpents and a demiguise that, from what we've been able to glean, ran amok in a nomaj store?"

"There was also the niffler – but none of the incidents were observed by nomajes, sit, " Tina quickly assures him.

"Yes, the niffler," Mr. Graves agrees darkly. "Let's start there. The incident at the nomaj bank with the niffler – for which you were a fortunate witness to and for which you initially arrested Mr. Scamander."

"For that, and for not obliviating the nomaj witness," Tina agrees.

"Something you didn't think to do either, apparently," Mr. Graves gives her an long look. "Which would come to be something of a running theme, it seems. Nevertheless, you took Mr. Scamander straight to the auror department – straight to whom you thought was me."

Tina frowns a little. "Mr. Scamander had just endangered the Statute of Secrecy, sir. It was protocol."

He stares at her inscrutably for a moment. "So it is – except you weren't an auror at the time – you've were in the Wand Permit Department," he says. "You should have reported him to an actual auror – but instead you took him in yourself."

Tina swallows and looks down. Is that what this is about? Her acting above her authority? "I might have acted... hastily, sir, but it was only with best intentions. It was what I thought to be a serious violation – it _was_ a serious violation!"

"Which was dismissed off hand due to the fact that Mr. Scamander's case was full of nothing but pastries," Mr. Graves points out.

"Yes, because his suitcase had been switched with that of the nomaj Jacob Kowalski," Tina agrees.

"Mm-hmm. Which then led to number of creatures from Mr. Scamander's suitcase to escape, some of them rather explosively, from what I can gather. Which then led to number of _incidents_ ," Mr. Graves says slowly, eying her grimly. "Which then... raised _no_ alarm what so ever, weren't investigated by this department in any way, and apparently had no eye witnesses. An erumpent runs through the city – in plain daylight, I might add – and apparently no one but you noticed."

Tina hesitates. "What are you saying, sir?" she asks slowly, bit of outrage creeping into her voice. "Are you implying I _made_ _it_ _all up?_ "

Graves arches his eyebrows at her and looks down at her report. "You captured Mr. Scamander – and the nomaj – neatly in his suitcase after he had recaptured his erumpent," he says. "After which brought the case in, post haste judging by what you wrote down here. And not only did you bring it in but you took a case you knew housed at least one extremely dangerous magical creature straight into a meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards. A meeting full of the most important political decision makers of the world."

Tina opens her mouth to say something but Mr. Graves holds up a hand to silence her. "You took," he repeats slowly, "a magically expanded case, knowing it housed at least an _erumpent_ , a beast which had at that point already escaped the case once... straight to Madam President herself."

Tina swallows. "I – I had to, sir – Mr. Scamander had endangered nomajes, he'd risked exposure – it was serious – and besides, nothing dangerous happened, the case was confiscated..."

She trails off under his severe gaze.

"The case was confiscated – by Grindelwald," Mr. Graves says. "Who then found exactly what he was looking for inside it. An obscurus."

"Yes, but it was a different one, sir – an obscurus of a little girl from Africa -"

"It think, Auror Goldstein, that you need to be quiet now and listen," Graves says, and Tina's teeth clack together with the force she shuts her mouth. She can feel her face drain of colour at the sound of his voice – because she knows it.

Its his _you've_ _fucked_ _up_ _auror_  voice and his split lip and black eye do nothing to weaken it's impact.

Graves nods, satisfied, and then looks at her seriously. "Now, listen to me, and _think_ ," he says. "Mr. Scamander gets imprisoned for unspeakable breaches of secrecy which, miraculously, have no nomaj witnesses except for the one particular nomaj which Mr. Scamander is, at this point, all but dragging along with him. You then bring them both in right in middle of ICW meeting."

Mr. Graves taps her report with one finger. "Now, setting aside the fact that you bought the potential equivalent of a bomb in middle of such important political gathering, it was also where, it so happens, the obscurus attacks were being discussed," he continues, staring straight at her. "Mr. Scamander then _identifies_  the damage done to a recent nomaj victim and, publicly humiliated by the accusation of letting a magical child turn obscurial on American soil, Madam Piquery has no choice but to order his arrest. His suitcase is then subsequently expounded – by Grindelwald."

Tina shakes her head confusedly at his severe tone, but she doesn't dare to interrupt. You did _not_  interrupt Director Graves when he was in the process of tearing you a new one.

Mr. Graves lets the moment hang a while and it's obvious he's expecting her to figure something out. "Grindelwald, who before this point was the only one who knew it was an obscurus – and who has been keeping it a secret," he points out, his voice heavy with significance. "Mr. Scamander has just identified the attacks, he has just blown open at least part of Grindelwald's plans, right in front of the entire ICW – and then Grindelwald gets his case. Case, which _it_ _just so_ _happens_ , contains an obscurus inside it."

Tina swallows and Mr. Graves nods very slowly, seeing the spark of suspicion bloom in her eyes. "All very convenient – isn't it?" he says and leans back, folding his arms over his chest. "What is the rule of magical criminal investigation, Tina?"

Tina squeezes her eyes shut. Shit. "Never accept the obvious," she says automatically. "And always question the simple answer."

Graves nods and motions her to go on.

Tina looks down at her hands, thinking furiously. What should've she been asking? "How did no one notice the creatures?" she says and Mr Graves lifts one finger, nodding her to continue. "Why did he keep Mr. Kowalski – the nomaj – around?" another finger and she grimaces – the thread of doubt is unwinding the simple picture faster now that she's started. "How did I capture them so easily, didn't the case have security measures? How did he identify the obscurus victim so fast? Why..." she trails off and looks up. "Why did I take the case straight to the ICW meeting?"

Mr. Graves holds up his fingers for a moment. "Are you done?" he asks and she sighs – missed something then. "Let me add a few more. How come he just happened to come across the meeting of the Second Salemers? How does a self proclaimed magizoologist lose a creature so easily? How didn't he capture it instantly? How did he not recognise the wrong case, how did the cases get switched in the first place? How come were the cases so outwardly similar in the first place? Why did he let himself be arrested by you – how come he didn't resist arrest? From what I'm reading he followed you like a docile puppy – didn't you think that was a bit suspicious?"

Tina sinks a bit in her seat as Mr. Graves' eyebrows climb higher with each question. "Thinking, now?" he asks pointedly. "Think about this next: when he was finally properly arrested, Mr. Scamander brought in an obscurus and the first person who knew about it aside from him... was the only _other_  person who knew anything about the subject."

"You think it was deliberate?" Tina asks, shaking her head in confusion – still trying to catch up with his notions.

Mr. Graves looks at her, unimpressed. "What happened next, Tina?" he asks pointedly.

She grimaces. "Mr. Scamander had figured out what Grindelwald was doing and so Grindelwald tried to get rid of us. He made Mr. Scamander his a scapegoat and tried to execute the eyewitnesses."

"Or he was trying to get rid of competition," Mr. Graves points out. " _Think,_  Tina. Where did you meet Mr. Scamander in the first place?"

Tina runs a hand over her hair, getting a little frustrated now – though she isn't sure with what, herself or the ludicrous amount of sense it's all making suddenly. "The meeting of the New Salem Philanthropic Society. But sir, if it was all planned and intentional and he was after the obscurus... why not just go after Credence? Why release the creatures? It doesn't make sense."

"It does, when you look at it not just from the perspective of a man competing with Grindelwald – but one who is also showing off at him," Graves points out. "The way the creatures behaved, how there were no witnesses... MACUSA and Grindelwald weren't even aware of it until you waltzed in with Scamander supposedly trapped in his case. Its almost offensive how smoothly it all came together. There is also MACUSA to consider – they were after the obscurus too. I suspect Scamander was attempting to throw them off the scent."

Tina swallows. That would make sense, wouldn't it? And yet she can't help but think of Newt with his guileless charm... was he really plotting behind the innocent expression the whole time? How had she not seen it? How had  _Queenie_  not seen it?

"He failed in the end," she says slowly. "Credence was killed."

"Supposedly," Graves says meaningfully. "There was no body, was there?"

Tina stops and then clenches her hands into fists. No, there had been no body. And... and there had been no dismay, no sorrow, nothing on Newt's – on Scamander's face. Credence had just supposedly died and he'd not batted an eye.

And then... "And then he unmasked Grindelwald," Tina whispers. They hadn't even suspected it – _she_  hadn't suspected it. Honestly she'd thought Graves had gone mad or something, but she would have never in million years thought that he'd been replaced – and she worked with Graves! And yet Scamander who'd been there for all of two days had just… just figured it out, just like that?

"And then he unmasked Grindelwald," Graves agrees darkly and leans back with a sigh. He rubs at his bruised eyes and then sighs. "And then, after all of this... Scamander leaves us in debt thanks to a hitherto unknown mind altering substance that can apparently erase the memories of _an_ _entire city_ ," he says with a weary voice. "And not a one person in MACUSA considers it even worrisome, never mind fucking _alarming_ , that he has this capability?"

"Shit, sir," Tina says faintly.

The man just shakes his head. "And so it's all wrapped up nicely, isn't it? Grindelwald is captured, witnesses obliviated – including the only nomaj witness that was ever involved with Scamander and the obliviation of whom freed Scamander of all guilt, conveniently enough."

Tina shakes her head, speechless.

"Right," Graves says and looks at her. "Tina, I am suspending you from duty until further notice. Get a mind scan, see how badly you've been manipulated during all of this. Once you got a clean bill of health, I want you to rewrite your report. Properly this time."

"Yes sir," she says with a tight swallow while standing up. "What about him, though? What are we going to do about Scamander?"

He looks at her darkly. "That's the thing," he says. "It was all an accident and there are no eye witnesses except you, your sister – both of whom are compromised – and the nomaj – who has been Obliviated. As far as anyone knows Mr. Scamander did nothing wrong, remember? If anything he did us service, unmasking Grindelwald and helping us keep the Statute of Secrecy intact. It's a wonder he wasn't given a medal, really."

Tina stares at him silently, her mind going blank with sudden, wordless disbelief and outrage.

Graves sighs. "Now you're thinking, " he says with joyless satisfaction. "Go get a mind scan, Auror. You're dismissed."


	6. Turnabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lil bit of time travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another typo riddled phone upload

Newt blinks with confusion, staring at the horizon. Or what had been the horizon. It is one of his favourite things about ocean travel – turning to face the vast expanse of water with no land in sight, knowing the enormous distance ahead to be crossed. It makes him feel adventurous – but settled too. Its not as if there is any place on the ship to go except what was within it's sides.

Only, it's not the ocean ahead of them now. Instead the bow of the ship has been turned, quite abruptly, back towards New York City, the harbour once more within sight.

"What in Merlin name," Newt murmurs and steps closer to the metal baluster, peering ahead. They are making landfall, the ship turning subtly towards one of the piers.

There are other passengers on the deck and with a frown Newt turns to the closest one. "Excuse me – did something happen?"

The woman gives him a surprised look, almost dropping her suitcase. "How do you mean?" she asks.

"I mean why are we docking?" Had there been an accident on board the ship, or was there something wrong with the ship itself or...?

"Well we're here, sir?" the muggle woman says, looking at him strangely. "We've arrived and we can't very well disembark unless we dock, can we?"

"But..." Newt starts to say and then trails off, looking at the other passengers. They're all ready to disembark judging by the looks of them, all of them eying the city ahead of them excitedly. Then, confused, Newt looks up at the ship itself.

Its not the  _Royal Star,_  the ship he'd left New York on. Its  _HMS Temeresi_ – the ship he'd arrived on.

 

* * *

 

Though he feels a bit like someone had knocked him badly over the head, Newt somehow makes it through the muggle customs without causing an incident. After that he stares at New York like he's never seen it before, which he thinks maybe he hasn't?

Idly wondering if Dougal had managed to sneak those mushrooms into tea again, Newt wanders into the busy streets of New York. He has Fleury's add in his pocket and no Grindelwald related injuries that he can feel and the niffler keeps popping the suitcase locks open as if he hasn't been sating his lust for all things glittery by robbing half the jewellery in the city. Its all both new and terribly familiar.

Newt takes the first opportunity to sit down – and only belatedly realises he's sat down on the steps of a very familiar muggle bank.

Then he gets up again, sets his suitcase down on its side – and sits on top of it instead.

"... all dazzle and bewitch us," a voice calls out over the crowd in front of the bank. "But where there is light there is shadow, friend!"

Newt frowns, looking up. First thing he sees is Tina Goldstein nonchalantly eating a hotdog in the crowd of muggles, with mustard on her upper lip. Then he sees Jacob, pushing his way through the crowd. Then he sees Credence Barebone, holding a fistful of black and white leaflets.

Then he sees events changing.

Jacob hurries through the crowd and into the bank, unhindered by a British wizard. Tina keeps her eyes on Mary Lou Barebone and her vile speech, never noticing Jacob – or Newt for that matter. Credence never looks up, keeping his head turned meekly down.

Newt stares, fascinated, as history changes.

Then the realisation that Credence Barebones is standing less than twenty feet from him, alive and not yet a killer, catches up with him and Newt jumps to his feet.

And that's of course when the niffler escapes.

 

* * *

 

Newt stares, confused, at his hands. He's not sure what happened there. One moment he was looking for the niffler – next he'd been face to face with an important looking muggle man and then there was the occamy egg...

"So, Mr. Scamander, " the muggle banker says. "Tell me why are you looking for a loan."

"Um," Newt says. He's really not looking for a loan, especially not a muggle loan – terribly fastidious about money, muggles. What he wants is to get his niffler and then hope that the Second Salemers haven't left yet and he can still catch up with Credence...

Except the muggle man is holding an occamy egg in hand and Newt is rather stuck.

"Well I was hoping to open up a... shop?" Newt offers awkwardly, glancing around. Could he just confound this man and be on his way?

"An antique shop?" the banker asks interestedly, eying the egg.

"Something like that?" Newt asks uncertainly and then holds out a hand. "Could I please – "

"We'll have to get this verified, you understand," the muggle man says severely. "It has a strange patina, this egg – it's not like any Faberge Egg I've ever seen."

"I'm sure it isn't but – please be careful with that, it's very delicate," Newt pleads. Delicate – and also about to hatch, which is infinitely worse.

"Of course," the muggle says and sets the egg down. It wobbles a little. "Now let's talk about your plans – have you scouted for a location..."

Newt tries to keep up with what he's saying, while keeping an eye on the egg, while also keeping an eye out for the niffler. Most of what the muggle is saying goes completely over his head and he keeps fretting over Credence, surely the rally would be over by now...

"Well then, I do believe everything is in order – we'll just have a specialist take a look at this and –" the banker reaches for the egg – and that's when it cracks.

Time freezes just for one moment balancing on a knifes edge. Then Newt jumps up from his chair and snatches the egg up – it's hatching.

"Oh no," the banker says, his face bleached of colour. "Oh no, oh my god – Mr. Scamander, I can't even tell how sorry I am – please – please hold a moment, I must get Mr. Bingley –"

The muggle man stumbles out of the office, leaving Newt blissfully alone with the hatching occamy. Newt aims all his attention on the egg, watching the shell crack, watching little beak breach the surface.

"Hey there – that's it, just look at me," Newt says softly. "That's right, I'll be your mother, you can safely imprint on me, there you go..."

The occamy chirps at him and with a grin Newt cups his hand for her, tilting the egg as he does. She slithers into the welcoming warmth of his palm, curling in the little hollow he made for her and he drops the shell on the desk in order to figure out where to hide her.

Pickett puts up bit of a fuss when he slides the occamy down his pocket to join him – but Newt can only shush him silent because that's when the banker comes back, with yet another, even more important looking muggle.

They look at him. Then at the silver eggshells on the table. And then back at him.

Newt swallows. "I am so sorry," he says quickly while we turning so that there is no chance of a purple little snake of being seen. "I didn't mean to cause such a fuss."

"No, no, Mr. Scamander, the fault is certainly ours – you may sure Mr. Yates will face disciplinary actions for his mishandling of precious goods," the new muggle says hastily and comes closer. "Steen National Bank would like to offer its most sincere apologies – if there is anything at all we can do...."

"Well," Newt says, inspiration striking. "There is one thing."

 

* * *

 

The muggles look like they're about to faint. Their vault is a mess, even worse mess than the last time around. Shelves have been upturned, storage drawers flipped over every which way. Its chaos.

In the middle of it all there is Newt's niffler, pouch fat with gold.

"Oh good lord," Mr. Bingley says while Mr. Yates draws choked, panicked breaths. "We need to call security, we must –"

Quick Newt hits them both with a confundus.

Getting the niffler is easy this time, if nothing else – he's so heavy with stolen goods that he can barely waddle, never mind his usual agile scamper. Newt catches the niffler by the leg and teases as much of the gold out of him as he can manage in the short time he has before the muggles come to their senses. Then he shoves the little thief into his suitcase, wincing at the clatter of precious metal echoing after him, before very firmly locking the case.

He smoothly steps between the two muggle bankers and releases the confundus.

"Oh good lord," Mr. Bingley says while Mr. l Yates draws choked, panicked breaths. "We need to call security, we must get to the bottom of this – we've been robbed!"

 

* * *

 

Somehow Newt ends up walking out of the bank with a case full of money. "Compliments of Steen National Bank," they'd assured him over and over – before telling him, many times, that he would of course not be going to the papers, would he? Because there was certainly no reason to involve the press, was there?

Newt is still a bit confused by the whole sequence of events when he steps out, now carrying two suitcases – his own and the complimentary one from the bank. Its all a bit fantastical. Maybe he's having a dream after all.

Then there is Jacob, dejectedly sitting on the bank steps. The New Salem Philanthropic Society meeting is long since over judging by the looks of it, and it's a little less crowded now.

"You didn't get your loan then?" Newt asks.

Jacob startles and then sighs. "That obvious, huh?" he then asks with bleak humour.

Newt shifts his footing a little. "I'm sorry," he offers.

"Yeah, well – that's life for you, " Jacob says and then looks at him. "Looks like you had better luck."

"If you can call it that," Newt mutters. He's not entirely sure if he just robbed a bank or not but it feels a bit like he did – and then got a pat on the back for it. It's a very peculiar feeling.

"Well congratulations to you – hope you succeed in whatever you're doing," Jacob says with a sigh and stands up. "I should be off, stop loitering and all that."

"Ah –" Newt says and then hesitates. What to say, what to say.... "Listen, did you see the meeting going on here?"

"Those lu – people with the witchcraft stuff?" Jacob asked and shakes his head. "Not really my thing, gotta tell ya."

"Yes – well, no, " Newt says and shakes his head. "Mine neither – but I was wondering, did you see which way they went?"

"Why'd you want to know?" the muggle asks with a confused frown. "If you're not interested?"

"Ah that is..." Newt thinks about it and then shrugs. "The woman beats her children. I was going to try and... do something about it."

Jacob states at him. "That's... bit of an accusation."

Newt shrugs. "Its also true," he says and then glances down. The occamy is peeking out of his pocket. He really needs to get somewhere more private. "Did you see which way they went?"

"Well," Jacob says slowly. "Maybe. You sure she's beating her kids though?"

"I'm absolutely certain," Newt agrees.

Jacob considers it for a moment and then nods, making a decision. He gets up and grabs his suitcase. "Alright," he says determinedly. "I'll show where they went."

 

* * *

 

They end up at a church. A very grim and gloomy looking church.

"Yikes," Jacob says, peering at some posters plastered all over the alley walls. "What is this, the sixteen hundreds?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Newt agrees and chews his lip as he considers the church. Its apparently the head quarters of New Salem Philanthropic Society. And Credence's home. But what to do next? Just barge in?

As they watch the church doors are opened and a girl Newt thinks is possibly part of the Barebone family steps out. She has a bell on hand and starts ringing it at the street, peering along it as if expecting something.

"That's the most depressing dinner bell I've ever heard," Jacob comments.

It seems to do its job though – a number if children all but materialise as if out of thin air, summoned by the bell. They run to the church, stop at the door to nervously straighten their clothes and comb their fingers through their hair, before stepping in.

"So they do charity work, huh?" Jacob asks. "Now what?"

"Now we go in and... and see what we can see," Newt says and then frowns. "I suppose just going in would be a little rude."

Jacob considers him. "You didn't plan this at all, huh?"

"Not really, no," Newt agrees with a sigh. This is why he doesn't like dealing with people. People take planning. "I just want to... to help, that's all. I'm not entirely sure how. Getting into the church would be a start, however."

"Well," Jacob says thoughtfully. Then he looks down at his suitcase. "Maybe we can do a bit of charity too."

 

* * *

 

"It really is no trouble at all, " Jacob assures Mary Lou with a charming smile. "These are just some samples – I would never be able to eat them by myself, they'd be wasted! No, please – I insist, let the children have them."

Jacob, Newt is quickly realising, is both the best person he's ever met – and possibly some sort of chaotic force of nature. The whirling billywig that caused a hurricane, that was Jacob.

Though to be fair, Jacob wouldn't be so destructive if he didn't have a innate ability of grabbing Newt's suitcase at the precise wrong time.

"What – what?" Jacob stammers as what was charming sharing of various baked goods quickly turns into a collapsing church and erumpent tearing her way through the alleys.

Newt sighs and confounds screaming Mary Lou while her shell shocked children and various New York street urchins stare in horror. "This will be a bother and a half to fix," he muses.

"What was that?" Jacob demands. "It just... tore through the wall? Was it a rhino or -?"

"And how did it get in a suitcase?" one of the street boys asks.

"Was it magic?" another demands to know.

"Are you a witch?" the youngest Barebone asks and everyone holds their breath.

"A wizard, actually," Newt says absently and considers the collapsed wall. Now he could fix it, probably should fix it – but on other had he could just... not fix it. Maybe without the church the vile organisation operating from it would die.

"Like a... stage wizard?" the elder Barebone girl asks

"Never been on a stage in my life, reckon I'd be bit rubbish at it," Newt shakes his head and puts his wand away. "Well I got an erumpent to catch now," he says and turns at the small army of children. "It will be terribly dangerous and you all should stay here and safe."

Another thing Newt quickly realises is that one should never, ever tell a large group of human young that something is too dangerous for them.


End file.
